Tell Me How We Met, Again?
by Cordelia McGonagall
Summary: A quick one-shot take on how Draco and Astoria might have met. Take one. I'm probably not done with these two. Fact: This is the fastest thing I have ever written. Rated M for language only. Thanks to JKR for all. (Update 12/15 - this one-shot is getting extra chapters. I know...then it's not a one-shot. I hope we are all okay with that.)
1. The Meeting

**A/N: a one-shot for camillablue, with congratulations and fond wishes for all the happiness**

 **Tell Me How We Met, Again?**

There were many layers to Draco's love for St. Mungo's. He liked the study of Healing; it demanded a rigorous knowledge of potions and charms, spellwork that was far beyond what Hogwarts had offered. He'd spent hours in the library at school, a lamb leading his fellows to the slaughter, pursuing a grisly independent study, the pressure of death by Voldemort's wand pushing his quill. Here, he was able to train to make amends, for now his mind could be used to save people and not to put them in harm's way.

It was a drink with Blaise that had set Draco's path; Blaise, never one to be blinded by Draco's bravado, asked Draco what he was going to do, now that he wouldn't be rotting in Azkaban.

"Oh, saving the Wizarding world, I suppose. It's worked out well for Potter," Draco had muttered into the pint of bitter, bitterly swallowing the consequences of his birth and his choices.

Blaise had smirked and said something dry, but not long after this, Draco had chosen St. Mungo's for his community service, a condition of his sentence after the War. St. Mungo's had chosen him back, for it was here where Draco learned he could earn respect. It was here he learned he could sleep again, the ache of walking the halls for hours longer than a day, the soreness from work bringing him a small amount of peace and a set order to his life which had been burned to ash and blown away in the wind.

He didn't like the Spell Damage ward.

He had to force himself to be honest about it. It took a bravery he didn't have to sit next to Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom and try to have a conversation for the sake of having something to write in their charts. He wondered if their minds flashed to his aunt like his did. It made him uncomfortable to see Neville, who was always polite, carefully thanking him as he did all the staff who nursed his parents.

He didn't like the Healing on this ward, for there was precious little of it. On occasion, an elderly wizard or witch would be brought in, demented, but not by Dementors or spells, grappling with a mind that was clear one minute and foggy the next. It was rare for a magical person to have dementia like Muggles so often did, but he'd seen it enough. He would send them home to a carer or on to St. Polycorp's Home for the Aged, and he'd offer the obligatory pamphlets to their family. That was about all he could do - a pamphlet and a Calming Draught. There were other Healers who were better than he was at this care, but Draco would rather heal a gash from a curse or a bite from a bicorn than soothe a tangled mind.

But this was Christmas, and Draco had to work Spell Damage. Draco always worked Christmas Eve since he started here, four years ago. A chivalrous Gryffindor would work it so others could be with their children, but Draco worked it so he could be left alone. Only the truly ill showed up on Christmas Eve; there were a few drunken family brawls that ended in creative hexes, but mostly it was quiet. Draco could attend to his work. There would be no need to talk. And his mother was understanding. Lucius was in Azkaban. Christmas was better if it were like any other day.

He pulled a chart from a brass box outside a private patient room and sighed as he read it. Inside the room he heard voices. They were getting louder. He knocked and pushed the door open with his forearm.

His perfunctory greeting was cut short.

"Draco?"

Draco blinked. "Oh, hello, um, Daphne."

Daphne Greengrass looked the same as he had remembered her, her hair pulled into a thick, blonde ponytail, and her face drawn into a look of disappointment.

He glanced over to the other woman in the room. He thought it might be her sister; he remembered a younger Greengrass from Hogwarts. She had been crying, and she was looking around the room for something to wipe away her tears. Draco frowned at the table, empty of a tissue box and pulled some wadded gauze from his pocket and handed it to her.

She took it absently and choked back a sob. Draco cautiously looked between the two women and saw a very old wizard laying on the bed behind them. He appeared agitated. Draco looked back at the two witches before settling himself on the edge of the bed and considering the elderly man.

His skin was thin and mottled with bruises. It looked like he had fallen on his right arm recently.

"Hello, Mr. Greengrass. I'm Healer Malfoy. How can I help you today?" Draco reached his hand out, and nodded as Mr. Greengrass blinked and then grasped it. His grip was strong, and Draco waited for him to let go before sliding his hand to feel his pulse.

"I have a daughter who wants to get rid of me. And another one that won't marry Marcus Flint like she is supposed to! No gratitude! Voldemort will make Astoria a Death Eater like her sister if she isn't married soon. I worry about it," he ended softly, a wrinkle creasing between his eyes.

"No one wants to get rid of you, Dad. You just can't stay at home alone. You set the curtains on fire turning on the wireless." Daphne argued. "And I am not a Death Eater, for fuck's sake," she whispered under her breath, glowering at Draco as she exhaled.

Draco looked at Astoria, who had calmed herself and was looking at Daphne through narrowed eyes. He asked her, "Has your father been cursed?"

"N-no," Astoria answered, her voice shuddering from the tears. "He is just lost. It is hard."

Draco looked back at Mr. Greengrass. "Did you set the curtains on fire?"

Mr. Greengrass nodded. "They look like Devil's Snare. I always told their mother so." He looked at Daphne. "You are trying to dump me here, aren't you? On Christmas? Some grateful daughter you are. Not like Astoria. She loves me. She just needs to get married."

Draco drew a breath to give a calming speech, something rote, learned in Healer training, something to diffuse the tension that was sending sparks from Daphne's wand, when she rounded on her sister.

"You know what, Astoria? We could have had him safe at St. Polycorp's six months ago if you hadn't dragged your feet. So why don't you and Dad figure this out without me, since you love each other so much. Merry Bloody Christmas!"

She left and slammed the door, and a paper decoration of a house elf with a Father Christmas hat slipped forlornly to its side. Draco scowled at it and plucked it from the door and tossed it in the rubbish bin. He turned to Mr. Greengrass and Astoria.

He could be mixing potions right now.

Or performing a countercurse. Those were always rewarding.

He swallowed a sigh and pasted what he hoped was a professional look on his face.

"Astoria?" Draco asked, dispensing with formal introductions. "Are you in a place to take care of your father at your home?"

Astoria squeezed her eyes shut. "I would like that very much. I work. I can't be home for him. He needs to not be alone now. His mind is worse by the day. You saw the chart?" Draco nodded.

"Mr. Greengrass, can we talk about a home with better curtains?"

Mr. Greengrass scowled, and in the moment looked rather aware of what Draco was aiming for.

"St. Polycorp's?"

"That is what I meant, yes." Draco felt it best to discuss this with Mr. Greengrass first; he deserved respect as much as he needed care.

"I can't leave Astoria. She is going to be taken away by Voldemort. Does Daphne know we are here?"

Astoria let out a frustrated sob. "I told you, Daddy, Voldemort is dead, and I am _fine_."

"You need to be married to save yourself from Death Eaters!"

"Daddy, you never thought like this..."

And in that moment, Draco did something that he never thought he would want to do, something so grossly unprofessional that he rather hoped he didn't get sacked for it.

And yet, it was something he had done effortlessly for years. He'd not in a while, but he was sure the skill would remember him well.

Perhaps it was because it was Christmas.

He lied.

He took a huge breath, prayed that Astoria would use a wand and not a fist, and moved from the edge of Mr. Greengrass' bed to sit next to her. He moved close.

"Sir, she is married - that is to say, we are," Draco said, as he grabbed Astoria's hand and squeezed it. Her mouth fell open, but she didn't speak, so he continued, "I know it's easy to forget she isn't your little girl anymore, but it will be six months, well, this Saturday. Remember little Teddy Lupin at the wedding? He just learned how to ride a bicycle without Harry keeping him going with a spell. I'm sorry I've not been around much; I reckon I am here most of the time, and you know, Astoria is very busy with her..."

He was a bit out of practice. _Shite._

"With my work at Flourish and Blotts. Bookbinding and restorations. I'm catching up though, Daddy." Astoria blinked as though she, too, were amazed that she wasn't punching Draco Malfoy. He gave her a nervous sidelong look.

"That's right." He nodded at Mr. Greengrass and watched the elderly man's hands unclench and his shoulders sink into the pillows.

Mr. Greengrass looked at his daughter with such love that it made Draco's stomach clench with guilt.

"How did you two meet, again?"

Draco looked at Astoria, and her eyes were shining with tears. He mouthed _"I am sorry,"_ and he squeezed her hand. He couldn't remember feeling this bold. He wasn't sure what to feel when she stared at her father's smoothed brow and squeezed his hand back.

"Well, I always thought she was pretty, at school, but Daphne was in my year, and I didn't really know Astoria that well. She always had boys who fancied her, so I never had the opportunity to talk to her.

Last year, I went into Flourish and Blotts with a book my mother had given me from our family library. It was valuable, and I wanted to know if it could be repaired. She held that book like it was a newborn child, and I knew it would be safe. The repairs she made to the binding were flawless. I asked her if she would like to come to dinner with me, and she said no."

Both Mr. Greengrass and Astoria cocked an eyebrow. Draco grinned at the likeness and continued, still feeling too reckless for his own good.

"She didn't want anything to do with me. I accepted her answer, but that didn't mean I couldn't ask her again. I asked my mother if she had any other books that were in need of repair. She sent me three. I took the first to Astoria the following week. She was able to repair it on the spot, and she shooed me out of the store so fast, I couldn't do more than pay. I went back with the second book. She kept it for a week, and when I returned for it, I asked her out for drinks. She told me she wasn't even remotely interested in the likes of me. I asked her if she wanted to tell me about her lack of interest in me over drinks, but she pointed her wand at me, and so I left."

Draco paused and bit his lip, and as he did so, he heard a snort of laughter from the bed.

"Told you, she did," Mr. Greengrass chuckled.

"She did, indeed." Draco nodded. He could feel the warmth of Astoria's hand.

"I had one more book, so I dedicated it: " _To Astoria Greengrass, a beautiful woman I won't bother again, except for just now_." She started to laugh, but then she told me off for my choice of ink. She took the book to her workshop in the back, but she didn't tell me to go away, so I waited. She brought the book back to me, and I opened it up, and it said, " _To Astoria Greengrass, a beautiful woman I won't bother again, except for this Friday at six."_

Mr. Greengrass smiled. "I don't think I've heard this story before."

"You haven't." Draco admitted.

"Neither have I," Astoria muttered, but Draco was relieved to hear a bit of what he prayed was amusement in her voice.

"Am I staying? I'm tired." Mr. Greengrass sighed.

"I think that is for the best," Draco agreed.

Astoria looked at her father sadly, and brushed hair off his forehead and kissed him there. "I love you, Daddy. I'll come in the morning. For Christmas."

Mr. Greengrass nodded, his eyes already closed.

Draco held the door open for Astoria, but he couldn't meet her eyes. He cleared his throat and wrote on the chart, making a meal of straightening it in the bin on the door. She hadn't walked away. He forced himself to look at her.

"What in the hell was that, Draco?"

"I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me...I..."

"It was good. For him. I've," she sighed, "done the same. Told him I shot a werewolf once, to calm him down. He doesn't remember," she said, sadly.

"Well, it wasn't professional, I..." He cut himself off. He wasn't fishing for anything. He nodded. "St. Polycarp's office will be closed tomorrow, and probably on Boxing Day, but I will owl them on Friday, and then I can owl you with his arrangements. Shall I owl your sister as well? I see you are the contact on the chart."

"No, just me. And you don't need to owl. We can talk about it at six."

"I won't be working at six. I'll be off at noon. I can have another Healer call on you if you'd like..."

"No. I can talk to you," Astoria nodded calmly. "At six." Astoria pulled a card out of her purse and tucked it in the chest pocket of his Healer robes. "This is my address. I'll make the dinner reservation."

Draco cleared his throat. "I was so unprofessional. It's not like me...I can't date a patient..."

Astoria looked up at him and smiled for the first time all evening. It made Draco's breath hitch. He had been right. She was very pretty. "Draco, I'm not a patient of yours. And I can't come back next week with another father needing repairs, so do say yes." She took his hand this time and squeezed it.

He squeezed back. "See you at six."


	2. First Date

**Hullo, gentle reader! I wanted to write this date between Astoria and Draco, and I decided to weave it into my Hermione/Draco story "The Photograph." This was the result, and I still think the first "chapter" of this story stands alone, but this is a part two, if you will. As always, thanks to JKR for letting me play with her toys. - Cords x**

Draco examined his reflection in the full length mirror and picked a stray thread from his blazer, vanishing it with a snap of his fingers. He'd gone back and forth between a jacket or robes, tie or no, until he settled on a jacket in charcoal flannel without a tie. _No robes. She might've picked a Muggle place_ , he reasoned. The mirror got less use than it might have once, for on the days he didn't wear Healer's robes, he was sleeping or going to the shops, running casual errands.

The early, shocking days of his rehabilitation had exposed him to many Muggle things, and he had, to his mother's dismay, grown fond of blue jeans when he wasn't wearing pajamas. Once, he'd thought there had been precious few benefits to his punishment, other than staying out of Azkaban, though he had recently started to wonder if perhaps he wasn't a better person for it all.

 _Maybe the tie?_

He combed his freshly cropped hair back, tousled it, and combed it again, all the while chiding himself for his shocking behavior on Christmas Eve. _I chatted up a demented man's daughter whilst at his bedside_. _What the hell._

Draco proved himself a dab hand lying to extract himself from trouble; lying to place himself firmly in the center of it was a novel experience. He looked at his watch and pulled out Astoria's card again. She lived just two blocks away from the flat he rented for the days he was too weary to apparate home. He wondered if they had ever crossed paths before, perhaps at the shops or on a rare afternoon off at the park. So many things seemed to depend on these small moments in time - a final heartbeat, a casual thought to turn left rather than right. He had, just that morning, seen Vincent's mother at St. Mungo's. He may have lied to her once to avoid trouble, too. But not today. When she had muttered to him, comiserating about Mudbloods taking what they didn't deserve, he had cut her off with a vicious snarl he once would have reserved just for Granger, the only girl he'd ever targeted with that slur.

 _Hermione._ He'd just seen her face for the first time since the Trials, looking up at him from his _Prophet_ on his kitchen table that morning. He 'd felt her energy through time and newsprint; her animated face reminded him of Transfiguration class, and he had meditated on how odd it was to see her without anger or fear rolling in his gut. And it was precisely because he was so alone that he had let himself trace the outline of her slender neck with his thumb as he'd gulped the last of his tea before the Floo to St. Mungo's. Unlike Hogwarts, he had few regrets there.

He shook this memory off and rolled his shoulders in front of the mirror, frowning at the dark circles under his eyes. If he walked slowly now, he wouldn't be early, but he had enough time to make sure he wasn't late. It wasn't easy to apparate to an unfamiliar place in the city without knowing if there was an alley nearby. He opened the window and let Sirona out of her cage to hunt, and he grabbed the flowers that he'd bought earlier in the day.

He was spending a small fortune at the florist's - after a particularly harrowing apology to Katie Bell, he'd about cleaned them out. Tidying up after his teenage self was expensive, but he hadn't needed to spend money on hobbies, or travel, or a girlfriend, for Pansy was a distant school memory, and the few dates he'd had since her fizzled when witches asked him to keep their affections for a former Death Eater secret. Only recently had his numbness, followed by scattershot anger and monastic study given way to an aching loneliness. Intent for years on saving his skin, he had neglected saving his soul - or finding someone to mingle his soul with.

The night was foggy and not particularly bitter, for late December, and Draco inhaled the scent of wood fire as he walked. He took an alleyway shortcut to her building; the ability to disapparate if faced with a mugger made walking in the city more freeing for a wizard. He turned right from the alley and found her building on the corner. Even in the dark of midwinter, it seemed cheerful. The stone had been scrubbed clean recently, and the windows in each of the flats were bright. There was a family settling down to dinner on the first floor.

 _Greengrass 2A._ He pushed the buzzer outside and waited for the click of the door, which came without a word. The building was Muggle, for there were postboxes in the foyer and no trace of an owl perch. He was relieved he'd left his robes at home. The entryway had a baby buggy and a pink bicycle parked in it, and there were a jumble of boots in front of the first flat. He found her door and started to knock but saw that Astoria had left it open a crack. She hadn't asked who it was, nor did she leave her door locked. Draco frowned at her lack of caution and pushed the door open.

"Hello? Astoria?" he called.

"Hi! I'm almost ready!" she called from a room down the hall. "Do you care for a drink? I've some wine in the fridge if you like white. Red on the counter. Tonic and lime if you don't. Pour me a glass of whatever you are having, will you?"

"Okay," Draco called back. He wasn't used to this; his mother didn't entertain any longer, but he had memories of when she had, house elves receiving guests at the door to be presented to her in the drawing room. He wasn't sure what the Healers did at their parties; he'd only eaten wrapped dishes of food they brought to the hospital for someone's birthday or retirement. But he could pour a glass of wine.

This living space was open, and he made his way to a small kitchenette that was exceedingly tidy, its marble countertops bare save for a stained carbon steel knife resting on a clean, folded tea towel next to a slab of wood worn down in the middle. White dishes were stacked evenly on open shelving. There were several place settings. He glanced to the long dining table flanked with benches squeezed into the space adjacent. Several bookshelves stretched along the back wall behind the table; they were full from floor to ceiling in orderly stacks.

He decided on the red wine sitting on the counter; he didn't have interest in fiddling with the Muggle cooling box. He guessed first that the glasses would be in the cabinet above him, and he smiled, pleased with himself, when he was right. He opened a few more cupboards and found a glass carafe that would do for the flowers, which he trimmed and set into water. He opened the bottle of wine with his wand and poured two glasses and turned to survey the rest of the space.

She had a window that matched her neighbors' downstairs; hers was above a large worktable that was as spotless as her kitchen, the smaller tools organized into trays lined up at the top. There was a book resting in the jaws of a wooden clamp. To the right, there was a handsome fireplace, and in front of it was a leather chesterfield sofa flanked by two squashy calico chairs near a record player and another shelf of records. She had a wireless next to it, and this was belting out The Weird Sisters. There were candles glowing serenely throughout the flat. Draco found it odd that an unfamiliar space could seem so homely and comforting.

Draco heard a creak of wood and turned to see Astoria fastening an earring as she wandered out into the hallway. Without having time to take in her whole appearance, Draco found himself smiling.

She grinned back. "Oh! I am so sorry to have made you wait. You poured wine! Excellent choice - that was a gift from a client from his cellar, and he seemed rather impressed with his own present. I hear his collection is something to behold, if you care for such things." She shrugged at the thought, and then brightened again. "Hello, _Husband_. It's good to see you again," she said as she swept toward him and leaned in for a quick peck to his cheek. She smelled faintly of honey - Draco would learn later it was violets - and her voice was low and soft, but Draco was flooded by it all, the weight of her hands on his forearms, the warmth of her cheek against his, her gentle humor.

He really needed to leave St. Mungo's more.

She pulled away and surveyed him for a moment, and he was able to gaze at her better, realizing that he'd only really looked at her moments before she had left the hospital without her father or her sister. She was fair, but her curly hair and blue eyes were darker than his own pale ones. She was wearing a short, navy skirt and a clingy, silvery blouse that wrapped to a bow on her hip.

 _Wrapped. Like a present._ Draco had thought, and then he startled for a moment, wondering if he'd said this clear thought aloud. Recovering, he forced a chuckle.

"You look lovely, Astoria."

She held on to his right arm just as moment longer as she let his words hang in the air and deepen the dimple near her mouth.

"Thank you," she said slowly, and Draco felt his cheeks flush a bit.

He blinked at this. _What the hell is wrong with me? It's just dinner with Daphne's little sister._ He cleared his throat and tried to summon the voice he used to greet patients. "You have a nice place." He gestured to the kitchen. "You cook?"

She nodded happily. "I thought I'd go to Paris, be a chef after Hogwarts, but then I took a summer job at Flourish and Blotts. Cuthbert Blishwick was their bookbinder, but he was slowing down, and we found each other at just the right time. He taught me everything, and I was hooked on the craft enough to ignore my parents concern that I was entering a _trade_. Do you cook?"

Draco shook his head. "I'd like to learn, though. I never spent much time in the kitchens at the Manor." Draco took advantage of Astoria's Greengrass name, and the generations of privilege it held, for he knew better than to talk about his childhood with people who would judge him for the mentioning of it. He already had enough expectations to rise above as it was.

She nodded. "I can imagine you didn't. Well, I would start with a roast chicken." She spotted the bouquet. "Oh! Flowers! They are beautiful, Draco. White roses, and what's this?" She picked at the edges of the arrangement, and Draco frowned and leaned in to see what she tapped with her finger. "Mistletoe. Excellent." She smiled slowly at him, and he flushed again, wondering exactly when he had become so easily unnerved by normal conversation.

"I didn't notice she'd put that in there."

Astoria smiled and picked up their two glasses, handing his to him. "To mistletoe. And handsome Healers who tell wonderful bedtime stories in hospital. Did you bill for that, by the way?"

Draco clinked glasses and used a sip of time to ponder it.

"Well, it isn't standard protocol, to conjure a marriage to the patient's beautiful daughter."

Astoria grinned into her glass. "That is good to know."

"How is your father today? I sent the owls; he should have a bed at St. Polycorp's first thing in the morning. Someone should owl you from there. Is your sister-?"

Astoria shook her head. "Dad is fine, for now. Daphne is fine. For Daphne. She has a chip on her shoulder - feels like I get a larger share of Dad's love than I deserve."

"Sounds difficult."

"It must be easier as an only child."

Draco pulled a face and thought about his mother crying about his father and fussing over her son's hermetic schedule. "I couldn't say."

"You know all about me-"

"Mmm, I hope we aren't done with you." Draco grinned. He put his glass down; it had been too long since he'd flirted, but it was apparently like riding a broom, with a similar rush of pleasure, a thrill in his chest.

Astoria raised her eyebrows and smirked, taking a sip of wine. "We'll be done when I find out all about you."

"Well then, I shall have to practice Occlumency and reveal nothing, drawing the evening out as long as possible," he smirked.

Astoria grinned, enjoying their teasing game. "I shall crawl into that mind of yours over dinner. Muggle place. Just down the road." She picked up her cloak, a pale grey wool cape that would pass for Mugglewear. Draco peeled it from her hand and held it up for her, relishing the closeness of her snuggling into it.

"Thank you, Draco. Shall we?"

He was pleased to see that she locked up carefully, and then he wondered why he was so concerned about this independent woman and the locks on her flat.

She paused in the foyer to wave her wand over her hair. Draco cocked an eyebrow and she grinned sheepishly, "Windy." Just then, the door opened, and a little girl with a tangle of black curls peeped out of the doorway.

"Athtoria, do you have a date? What happened with the latht man? Wath he not nieth?"

Draco raised his eyebrows and looked at Astoria, who had flushed pink. "Petra, darling, shouldn't you be getting in the bath soon?"

"Mummy sayth I can stay up on Fridayths, Athtoria. You're handthomer than the lasth man," she nodded at Draco, solemnly.

"I like you, Petra. Draco Malfoy." Draco bent down and put out his hand, and when Petra took it, he shook her hand to make her whole arm wobble, and she giggled madly.

"Dracoth a funny name," she said, recovering, and he shook her arm again.

Astoria pursed her lips, trying to look annoyed and failing. "The tooth fairy doesn't come for little girls who stay up too late, Petra."

Petra looked at Draco for confirmation, and he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Petra ran her tongue over her gums and said, "Bye, then," and shut the door.

Astoria took a breath after the door clicked shut and risked a peek at Draco, who was smiling widely. "Muggles have a tooth fairy," she explained, briskly clipping through the silence in the hall.

"So am I handthomer than the lasth man?" Draco blinked innocently, thinking he would be amusing, fishing for this.

Astoria smirked. "The last man was Dean Thomas."

Draco bit back four different comments and settled lamely on "Oh." The arrogance of demanding a compliment would have suited his ego well, once. Now he felt wrong-footed. This wasn't Pansy. He smiled awkwardly and gestured toward the door.

Astoria gave him the same amused look she'd given the curious girl. She linked her arm in his and pulled to whisper in his ear, "And yes."

Draco looked down at the knob on the front door and smiled. This was enough, a warm, lovely woman on his arm. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he would be able to tell her that it was okay for her to keep him a secret.

The wind was picking up, and the rawness of it made their walk fast and quiet, their banter limited to pointing out a beautiful Christmas display, a patch of ice to avoid, a boy running a cheap, plastic sword along an wrought iron fence.

The boy was no older than seven, and his sword rattled loudly against the fence even over the wind. A man ahead of him half-heartedly called back, "Stop that, Ben. You'll break it."

The boy paused for a moment and frowned at the sword. He let it fall to his side for a moment, but the pull of the fence won out, and with great effort, he swung the sword again at the fence. The loud metallic _clang_ forced everyone to stop at once.

Astoria's eyes grew wide, and she squeezed Draco's arm.

The couple ahead turned in tandem at the sudden noise. The father looked at the heavy, steel sword in alarm and snatched it from the boy before he could protest as his mother scooped her arms around him to pull him in front, glancing furtively at Astoria and Draco. The dazed boy jerked away to turn back, his eyes searching Draco's as his mother's arms wrapped around him. Draco winked.

Their hissed exchange carried. "That sword was plastic, Tony! Plastic! Darling, did you pick that up? Tell Mummy what happened."

"It's like with the Lego!" the father exclaimed.

"I thought we agreed that was just the wine, Tony..." The parents dragged their son away as he began to beg for his improved present back.

Astoria drew nearer to Draco, and his chest warmed at the closeness. He wondered what they looked like together, the pair of them. He leaned down as she murmured to him quietly, "I always wondered. The Muggleborn. How it all _works_. It must be dreadful, thinking you are mad, and then being worried about not knowing everything when you get to Hogwarts. If your parents would even let you go. I don't know if I'd be brave enough to let a child do it, be all on his own with people I didn't know existed."

Draco thought of Hermione. Again. And again with another sick stab of guilt. "Yes. I suppose it would be very hard. I suppose I'd want to prove myself if I got there."

Astoria shook her head. "Can't imagine, really."

Draco nodded, stiffly, thankful for another bite of icy wind forcing their silence. He was pleased Astoria kept close. He'd had to learn how to conjure a Patronus for emergency Healer training; her presence was as warming as that had been. He could only hope it would be easier to conjure than his silvery hawk.

"Here we are!" Astoria stopped in front of a bank of steamed windows, their awnings fluttering. As Draco opened the door, Astoria casually lifted her wand with her cloak waving the charms away with her wrap. Her curls hair gave a gentle bounce, and Draco noticed it was as if she'd not stepped outside at all.

"That's a good charm," he nodded.

"Thank you. I'm afraid I'm more vain than I have a right to be."

Draco grinned. "You have every right." He cocked his head. "Was that poetic enough?"

Astoria shook her head with a chuckle. "Greengrass, please," she said to the woman at the front desk, who walked them to a cosy table in a small alcove.

Astoria leaned in as they were settling in to their seats. "Muggle restaurant. We can be private here with a _Muffliato_."

Draco didn't drink much, but hours at the Manor cellars - the ones with wine and not with prisoners - helped him pick a good bottle to pair with the mussels Astoria selected.

Draco had learned how to avoid talking about himself, a subject he used to favor, when pride and ambition had demanded the attentions of others. He'd found that the Slytherin which remained in him liked collecting details more now, even if he had no reason to use them to further his ends. It saved him from awkwardness. It warded off certain disappointments.

But with this woman, he wanted details for the sake of them - for the dimple by her mouth that appeared when she would talk about her favorite things was his reward, and the flutter in his chest it conjured made him crave it more. He asked her questions with the same probing manner he used at work.

After more than an hour of easy extraction, she stopped his inquiries. She held up a hand and ticked a list off with her fingers. "You know I have a barn owl named Greta, and I play the harpsichord, and that I almost asked the Sorting Hat to change its mind because I didn't want to be in Daphne's shadow. You know that I was introduced to Dean by Ginny, who was always kind to me in school, especially when my mother died, and Dean was kind but a bit too clingy in a way I couldn't explain to anyone but her. You know that I don't care for rocket salad, and I first showed my magic when I summoned my teddy bear into my cot. And you withdrew all of that from me without investing any of your details in return. So tell me, Draco Malfoy, what are you hiding?"

"You cut right to the point, Astoria," Draco muttered. His stomach forgot the mussels and the crusty bread; it felt like a stone had dropped into his gut. It had all been so warm. He sighed. It had been as perfect as he could have hoped.

Daphne took a small sip of wine. "Ripping covers off books is part of my work."

"My cover is my best part."

"Why don't you let me decide that?" He only knew her but for a few hours, but the hard look she gave him was clear; the sweet white lies that brought them together would not do here.

Draco nodded and swallowed. He decided he would be thorough. He only wanted to do this once, but ironically, he was sure that his disclosures would bring them to a swift end - he'd have no second chance with Astoria Greengrass after this. She'd touch up her lipstick and peck the air by his jaw frostily, and he would go back as he always did, to his books. He'd been laid bare in the Trials and hoped he was a better man for the exposure, but he still encountered people daily who needed him to know what they had been though during the War. He still was never sure how best to respond, much less how to feel. He paid a Healer to point out what should have been obvious.

Resigned to the consequences of his youth poorly spent, he told her everything. He told her how he had to identify the charred twist of bone that had been Vincent Crabbe. He told her how he didn't let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, passively holding a door; rather, he had worked tirelessly to bring them in to murder Professor Dumbledore. It was to have been his job. Perhaps she'd read about that. But she hadn't heard, he was sure, that he had spent several hours minding Professor Burbage rotating over his dining table, sweating like a pig on a spit, before he watched the monstrous snake swallow her whole. He told her about keeping Luna Lovegood and Garrick Ollivander underfed and terrorized in his dark cellar.

After Yaxley had cornered him in a dark corridor to brutally demonstrate the waning power of the House of Malfoy, Draco had tried to kill himself in the bath. He was still talking to a Healer about his guilt that he hadn't even done that correctly. But his blood hadn't washed away any of his own countless sins, nor had it erased one moment of Hermione's torture. Time had stopped when she'd locked her eyes with his, her face pale and terrifyingly beautiful, begging for him to do _something_. That something had been biting his lip until the blood leaked down his chin while Weasley's muffled howls had echoed below layers of oaken beams. It played in a loop on the few nights he wasn't sleeping on a cot at St. Mungo's.

Astoria nodded, her mouth a thin, inscrutable line, her eyes grave. "It must have been terrifying, having to take the Mark, with Voldemort expecting you to fail at it all."

Draco centered on the candle flame dancing between them. He shook his head absently, and then his stomach squirmed as he saw her staring at him. 'Pity for myself would be like a Dementor's Kiss. I just have to work. I apologized for what I could remember to at the Trials. I can't make it better for them. I just have to make it better for someone."

She nodded, and then her eyes flicked left, as if she turned a page. "And I think you should find Hermione Granger and tell her you loved her."

Draco had taken a fortifying sip of wine and choked on it. "I- what? I don't- no. That sounds like a horrible idea." He leveled a challenging look at her; he could feel his gates shutting, the bridge drawing up. "Even if I-" he started as he shook his head. "Which I _didn't_ \- there is no such thing as closure."

She raised her brows and nodded thoughtfully. "I'd agree. With the last bit. Honesty coming from a place of love is healing, though. Might be good for you both."

Draco shook his head in wonder. "You are really something. I cannot believe we are talking about this on our first date. This is a terrible sign." He paused, daring to imagine a scene with Granger. "And Weasley would knock my nose into my skull, if she didn't do it first."

"For saying you were lost in school, and she is lovely? I wouldn't think so. That doesn't seem very threatening." He gaped at her mirth. She grinned, her eyes twinkling.

He looked at her with a fierceness he rarely felt, terrifying but alive. He ran his tongue over the scar inside his lip. "If you want to leave, please let me settle the bill. I would be happy to walk you home."

"And if I don't want to leave?" Astoria took a sip of her wine and cocked an eyebrow.

"The thought didn't occur to me," he said, evenly, his eyes locked on a stray crumb on the tablecloth.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere." She gave him a haughty look and thought for a moment. "I restore books, but I can't make Lockhart's drivel into Shakespeare. If a book is worthless, mildewed and rotting beyond a spell's repair, I don't try to save it. I'm not interested in a man who covers up his misdeeds or explains them away. I'm not into fixing people. It seems like you are trying to fix yourself." She smiled.

Draco, used to the nimble mental gymnastics necessary for answering obscure, scattershot questions on hospital rounds, answered without pause, leaning into the table, surprising himself with his low, challenging voice. "I don't need a new cover, Astoria. Just a new chapter. One I'm proud to let the world read." His unplanned words were delivered with an intensity that made his date's eyes widen and her pink lips open to shallow breaths, holding his gaze in her own.

The waiter, thankfully unaware of the discussion, gently placed cards in front of them with a dessert menu. Astoria stared at hers as though she'd forgotten where she was. She blinked, and a small smile formed, barely revealing her dimple. Draco stared at it, waiting.

"Chocolate, I think. Coffees?" she said quietly.

Draco frowned as he puzzled his way through her words. He wondered if she meant what he thought this must, if she knew why she'd said it, even. She could sense his disquiet and bemusement, and she ordered for them, two coffees and a slice of Reine de Saba with two spoons, the heat and tension whisked away with the arrival of fresh plates.

She asked him, between bites of chocolate, about his job. He relaxed and then glowed as he talked about his studies. He liked breaking jinxes; some of his most rewarding cases had been with the rare young child whose uncontrolled magic had inadvertently caused harm. These few cases were layered like an onion; he had to diagnose and remedy but then teach control and prevention to a terrified child who felt out of control and powerless after a damaging burst of magic.

Astoria reflected his energy as a beautiful moon, and they shared their joys at being able to make things, do things, fix things. And in understanding this about each other, they casually formed future plans - to go to a Muggle library, to cook a roast chicken for supper, to give her nephew advice on a broom purchase.

"I thought I heard your greasy voice." They had been so engrossed in each other, they had not noticed the man approach. His wand was a lump, carelessly stowed in the pocket of a tweed jacket. His face was stony. Draco did not know the man, but he knew the expression, the shaking in his words. His eyes flicked around the room, counting Muggles.

"May I help you?"

"Malachi Smith. You could have, once. Death Eaters took half my gold to fight their little War. Perhaps you could settle my bill here."

Draco started to speak, but Astoria cut him off.

"I'm sorry Mr. Smith. He doesn't have any gold with him. I insisted he leave his money at home. I'm treating him to dinner." She beamed at Draco and continued, before either man could interrupt, "Six months ago, the other Healers said my dragon pox was too advanced; my organs were failing beyond spellwork or even Muggle interventions. I was dying. Healer Malfoy sat with me every night when he should have been getting a kip and told me I'd pull through. I told him I'd take him out for dinner if I wasn't dead." She blinked back tears. Draco's eyes widened as she took a breath and continued. "I didn't expect to be here, Mr. Smith. It's a good day. Are you Zacharias' father? Tell him Astoria Greengrass said hello, if you please, and leave your bill with me if you wish. I'm sorry for your losses."

Mr. Smith blinked at her and frowned at Draco. "Not necessary," he muttered.

Astoria smiled at him. Draco noticed the smile didn't reach her eyes, or her dimple, but it was enough to make the man crack his mouth into a confused twist.

Draco took the time to pull a card out of his jacket pocket and hand it to the man, who accepted it without looking before nodding and shuffling off.

"What was on the card, Draco?"

"Ministry contact. Not like my father used to have. I've been assigned a bureaucrat to legally process claims against me. Ministry would prefer an ex-Death Eater not be blackmailed to desperation. Anyway, they rarely get owls. The ones that do don't go anywhere - I already paid for a reparations fund. I had the cards printed anyway. Usually spares a scene. That wasn't bad. Most don't want money - they want me to feel their War. That's harder to settle up." He looked sad. "You didn't need to rescue me like that, Astoria." He looked at her still shining eyes. "Where did those tears come from? How afraid should I be of you?"

Astoria sniffed a laugh. "I suppose that depends on you, Draco. As for the tears...I thought about _your_ War." She composed her face into a fortifying smile, breathed, and then rearranged it, looking genuinely supercilious; Draco was at once reminded of his mother. "As for the rescue, no one messes with my pudding, Draco. If we are to go out again tomorrow, you should know that about me." She blinked with a ruffled air and sipped her coffee.

Draco's sober look melted into a grin. "Do I ever get to ask you on a date?"

"I'll give you a turn eventually, I'm sure," she said loftily.

Astoria commandeered the conversation and turned it back to digging up details, but now she asked the little questions he'd asked her, and Draco relaxed into them, the worst having been aired already.

She learned he liked to fish but not to hunt, and he was a night owl even before his sleep was wrecked with work, and his mother had birthed a stillborn daughter, Talitha, before Draco had been born - and had removed the Black tapestry hanging in the Manor when the baby had never been woven into the magic of the cloth.

Astoria now knew his favorite pudding was treacle tart - but that his mother never let the house elves make a treat too rustic and sticky. When he went home to the Manor during fair weather, he sometimes took a Muggle sleeping bag and slept under the stars. She found his favorite color was blue and not green, and that he both worried and hoped that he'd find himself in Ravenclaw. The fact that the Sorting Hat didn't need to rest upon his head before shouting _"Slytherin!"_ made him tetchy and low for the first week of school until he summoned enough bravado to cover the regret up entirely.

He had taken violin lessons for years before Hogwarts, but his father had decided as he approached adolescence that the fiddle was common, and his ease in playing it was worrisome. He had recently purchased a new instrument and resumed his lessons, and he'd not been on a broom since Harry Potter flew him through Fiendfyre. He hadn't seen most of his Slytherin classmates since the War's end, but he had recently formed a correspondence with Neville Longbottom centering on the shared interest in the potential healing properties of various rare magical plants in the Hogwarts greenhouses. He wasn't sure Neville would call it a friendship. But it was something. A businesslike, yet pleasant letter fortified him more than the series of women who only wanted him when no one important was looking.

They lingered over the dessert and the coffees, but the restaurant was growing quiet, and Astoria settled the bill and let Draco wrap her in her cloak. She pulled him out into the night, and she led him around the corner to a quiet alley where they could disapparate back to her flat, skipping the locks and the walk.

"We skipped the step where I walk you to your door and thank you for a wonderful evening," Draco murmured, not ready to let go of her hand.

"I'm unorthodox." Astoria squeezed his hand and pulled him towards the sofa and chairs, shrugging off her cloak on the way. "Tea?"

"Just a bit, thank you. I'm running low on sleep. _Unorthodox_ seems about right, so far." He didn't let go of her hand.

" _So far_?" she grinned. "Bit presumptuous, don't you think?" Draco flushed until her face proved her teasing to him. She laughed. "I said before I wasn't going anywhere."

He recovered and took a step toward her, making her bite her lip as her eyes flicked to his mouth. "Are _we_ going anywhere?"

She looked as though it was getting harder to keep the light banter going. She took a shallow breath before continuing, "Well, my relationship solicitors inform me that the contract between you...and me...is limited at the present. Terms are up for review tomorrow."

Draco threw caution away, and stepped closer still. "A contract. Interesting. Terms? You seem rather confident in your position." He allowed his eyes to rake over her, knowing that perhaps his heart wouldn't be bruised just today.

"I am worth all your negotiations and concessions," she breathed, cocking her chin up to him.

"I believe every word of that. Concessions." He breathed a laugh. "So far, you've paid for a fantastic meal, defended me from a raving man, and pressed me to profess my affections to a girl from school. Please tell me when you are going to get difficult."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. "I thought I told you no one gets between me and my pudding."

He touched his lips, affecting a thoughtful pose. "That seems easy. Is that all?"

She pulled a face. "I may be a bit bossy."

Draco barked a laugh. "Believable. Also acceptable. I'd press _you_ for more examples, but I look forward to discovering them myself."

"May I be a bit bossy now, Draco?" Her dimple disappeared.

"I wish you would, Astoria." His lips parted to let him take the air that wouldn't come into his lungs.

She looked at him with such openness - he wondered for a moment if there were an antonym to Occlumency - such a counterpose to his guarded self, that he froze as he watched her send the mistletoe shooting out of the carafe to attach itself to the chandelier above their heads. The magic prodded him, and he closed the thin space between them and took her free hand in his and kissed her, capturing her soft lower lip with his mouth. Here, she shared control, and they led in turns through a maze of kisses that left them both dizzy and fumbling for restraint. There fingers were no longer linked; hers were running along his shoulders, raking over the nape of his neck, and his warm, steady palms were holding her close - one on her back, the other on her hip. He finally forced himself to pull away before she did, working to cover his ragged breathing. It had been too long since he had kissed anyone, and kissing _her_ \- his mind spun, but he knew without forming any further thoughts that he was exploring new ground, entirely.

His voice was low. He looked down, afraid to look at her mouth, her eyes, her neck. "I should go."

Astoria nodded, vaguely. "Yes. I suppose it's late."

"I am off tomorrow afternoon. Does your offer of a second date still stand?"

"Mmm hmm." She looked up with a trusting smile, and all his defenses lifted in one beat of his heart. He'd only seen a similar look from children who allowed him to heal them. Trust on the face of this woman conjured a different feeling entirely, a feeling he hadn't known - until now - to crave. Draco wanted to pull her onto the couch and never leave. He inhaled a breath. "I will owl you around ten." He reached for her hands to squeeze them, and then he turned to go. He would walk home, welcoming the bite of the wind, giving him time to savor being scared for something he wanted for once.


	3. Second Date

Draco stood under the shower in the Healer's locker rooms until he was clouded in steam. No one ever showered in here unless necessary—a spurt from a Mimbulus Mimbletonia, a child's vomit soaking through robes, things beyond the scope of a _Scourgify_ that made one realize how physical healing was, how dirty.

The other Healers had reasons to hurry home, a husband who'd made stew, a child to tuck in, a roommate with the wizards' chess board all set to play. That wasn't a problem for Draco Malfoy; he let his owl come and go as she wished, and there was never anyone waiting. At first, he'd showered here as part of a dawdling ritual, a way to drag out going home to an empty flat. But now, he valued the purification of it; he'd literally scrub the day off, leaving death and illness at St. Mungo's, so that he could peel off his shoes and fall into bed the moment he locked the door behind him.

Today, he was in a bit of a hurry to leave for once, and though he knew what _anxious_ felt like, he wasn't used to _excited_. He wasn't sure how he'd wear it, if it would fit and look flattering on him.

He shut the water off and slid his hands over his face, pushing the water from his hair.

So many things he'd gotten without asking for them, before he deserved them. A broomstick, a tattoo. So many things he wanted that he'd never gotten, and those he could only say aloud to his Healer, who wouldn't tell him they were undeserved. He knew she was paid to heal, but he didn't always buy the truth of her words, though he was the one to pay her.

Thoughts of Astoria crept in his head all morning, and he wove between pushing them away out of fear and holding them close, letting them stretch languidly in his mind. It was a new feeling, this.

He'd sent her an owl message, and she asked if he'd meet her in the lobby of St. Polycorp's Home for the Aged. She said she'd want a walk in the park after she left.

As he dressed, he remembered his father—stiff, woolen robes, as far removed from London and Muggles as he could find. Draco, used to danger, liked to dart between worlds, not to mix with Muggles, but to hide from them in plain sight. He also was used to the comfort of Healer's robes, and his clothing choices considered this; today he had corduroys, a white shirt cool as bed linen, and a grey cashmere sweater. He'd started wandering into Muggle shops for the dare of it, flaunting his Wizarding presence to those who were simple and none the wiser; he left with some damned comfortable clothes, and if a witch in the hospital canteen lingered in her gaze, then, what could be the harm of that?

He waved his wand to dry his hair and preened a bit in front of the mirror before his shoulders slumped as he took in the blue shadows under his eyes. Someday he'd be rested, though he didn't crave the day when he could trust a clear heart and mind to sleep without bone-crushing fatigue to force his eyes closed.

He needed a few more dates like last night's to draw him into a hopeful sleep.

When he was small, he'd annoy his father with his reluctance to sleep; his father, wanting his wife to himself, would stomp upstairs to tell Draco to knock off the whinging, but the elder Malfoy would soften at the sight of the small blond head, the pale grey eyes, sleepy and worried.

His father would recount entire Quidditch matches, play by play. Draco loved them; it was the only time his father didn't judge a person—when they were on the pitch. Draco had a poster of a Muggleborn seeker for England on his wall as a young boy, and his father had been the one to buy it.

Lucius Malfoy was forgiving with Quidditch. With Quidditch, he had perspective to accept that the best did their best; one could do no better. Draco thought for a while that if he played Quidditch too, it would be the same. But that was not how it worked.

Draco still used Quidditch sometimes, when his eyes were too tired to read at night. _Ainsworth gets the Quaffle and passes it to Sykes. Sykes drops low and lobs it to Hawkins, but Bones intercepts…_

Once Draco showered at the hospital, he didn't stop by his Healer station to check a file. He wouldn't swing though the lounge to see if he'd left any unread messages. He was done, and he was leaving.

He apparated to St. Polycorp's, the nursing home obscured by a tangle of ivy and rose bushes, untrained climbers and topiary that exploded with shoots. He wondered if that was what the Muggles saw, for the neglected effect was not altogether displeasing, even in winter. He lifted the rusting gate slightly to push it open, and as he did so, the shrubbery shuddered as though a flock of birds had left it, and the garden shrunk to manicured proportions, revealing a tidy, paved path and a sweeping front garden with several benches.

Neville Longbottom was sitting alone on a bench, a cap in his hands, his elbows on his knees, head bowed.

Draco cleared his throat, and Neville looked up, his face somber.

"Hello, Neville," Draco said carefully, testing out speaking to his former classmate without the barked surname serving his warning.

"Draco." Neville acknowledged. There was a pause. "Not here for work, are you?"

"No. I am meeting Astoria Greengrass."

Neville blinked in surprise. "She makes a cracking pot de crème." He exhaled and set his eyes on the tree in front of him. Draco was reminded of his recitation of a Quidditch match before sleep. He wondered if Neville counted trees to settle himself. He didn't want to talk to Longbottom, didn't want to feel the dislike emanating from the man he used to torture without magic. But he wanted to know about Astoria.

He checked his watch. Early by six minutes.

"May I sit?"

Neville regarded him with a cool look of disinterest. "Suppose."

Draco carefully sat, putting his pressing question aside reluctantly. "You here for your parents?"

"Yes." Neville looked back at the tree facing them. "I wanted them out of St. Mungo's. Too many Death Eaters in there."

Draco exhaled. "I see."

Neville gave a huff of a breath that puffed white in the crisp air, a rueful look dampened by time and acceptance. "Not you, idiot," he said dryly. "You know Rookwood and Lestrange didn't fare well after the War, and they don't have enough beds on the ward to keep them away from my parents' sight. Besides, it's pretty here."

Draco looked up at the low canopy of branches and imagined leaves and blossoms. He supposed he couldn't ask about Astoria without risking a hex. He closed his eyes and thought of his last talk with his own Healer, the woman whose skills centered around finding the right ladder for the hole he was pulling himself from.

He looked at Neville. "Neville, it has been an honour to care for your parents."

Neville smiled a faint smile. "Yes. It has been." Silence. He looked back down at his hands. "I've only been to a couple of her dinners. Ginny brought me along."

Draco found himself jealous of Neville Longbottom. "Our first date was last night."

"And you are meeting her at a nursing home for the second one? Bit peculiar, you reckon?"

Draco nodded. "A bit. So is feeling jealous of you for having known her before I did. So is this conversation. It's all a bit peculiar, Neville."

Neville snorted a laugh. "She's a hell of a lot nicer than you are, Malfoy."

Draco gave a small nod as he stood. "Most people are, Longbottom."

The lobby of St. Polycorp's was bright and cheerful, with a tangle of reedy houseplants in a large bow window. An enormous brass birdcage held a gaggle of budgies. There were bookshelves, chess boards, a slightly cluttered assortment of objects that were tied only by the discarded and donated look of them.

Draco assumed Astoria had already scanned the bookshelves. He turned to check she wasn't approaching and scanned them himself, though he wasn't looking for a collectible edition or a tooled leather binding. He marveled that the small Wizarding world had produced so many books he had not seen— _Who Moved My Wand: Finding the Magic Within, What Grindelwald Knew, Getting to Accio_ ….There were several in large print type that Draco assumed were romance novels, their drippy Gothic print titles blending together in a tangle of radical adjectives.

Draco chanced a look at his watch and wondered for a moment if he had read her owl post correctly. Was he supposed to meet her here for...something? Or did he merely ask for her plans and assumed he was a part of them? He had just started to ponder an owl message shrugging off their crossed paths, when an arm slid around his waist, and Astoria leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I am late, Draco," she sighed.

Draco startled at the mournful tone to her voice, and he pulled away to look at her. "Are you okay?" He imagined a shapeless crisis.

She looked sad. "Oh, I am fine. Daphne stuck her head into my Floo, and we had words about Daddy. But I shouldn't have been late. I am terrible with time. I suppose you should know that now."

Draco took her hand and squeezed it. He was at a loss for words, and he didn't trust himself to search for any. "How is your father?"

Astoria closed her eyes. "I've not seen him yet. Draco, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to make plans today."

Draco's stomach knotted. "Do you want me to go? Or wait?" Astoria looked like she wanted to cry. Draco had seen this look before, at St. Mungo's. It was time to stop asking questions. "I think, if it's all right with you, I am going to come with you to see your father. If you would like me to step into the hall, just tell me. I am going to wait for you, and then we could take that walk, if you want."

Astoria nodded distractedly and laced her fingers in his. Draco wasn't so rattled by her that he couldn't marvel at the feel of it. Without thinking, he leaned in and kissed her gently.

He broke the kiss and she pulled back, and Draco wondered if he imagined her look, a look like she had just decided something, taken some evidence and sorted it.

"I'm not sure I should be dragging you upstairs, but I will." Astoria smiled.

A small jolt of confidence surged in him. "Good," he grinned, as he rubbed his thumb over hers, their fingers still intertwined. He nodded for her to lead the way.

Mr. Greengrass' room looked—at first glance—much like the beds on the Spell Damage ward, though there, most people hoped to stay for a short while, and the personal effects crept in as the time lengthened—cards and flowers would come first, then the favorite quilt; the photographs in frames replacing the snaps Spellotaped to a wall.

His room, though as institutionalized in design as the ones at St. Mungo's, had a thoughtfulness to its decor, and Draco could tell Astoria wasn't the only Greengrass who liked to feather a nest. The standard cotton blanket was topped with a handsome bedspread; along the wall, a mahogany secretary desk had several cubbies, neatly filled, with a family portrait in a gilt frame on the wall above it. A chair, which matched the fabric of the bedding, took the corner, and a small side table with a stack of books rested beside.

Mr. Greengrass was standing in front of his window, wearing Wizarding robes appropriate for a desk job that he no longer had. The old man turned quickly when he heard the knock on the open door, and as he did so, Draco saw no flicker of recognition from Astoria's father.

"Astoria." His gravelly voice picked each syllable carefully, the warmth in them palpable. Draco watched her shoulders relax.

"Daddy," she beamed. She began the casual niceties of a reintroduction. "You remem-" she caught herself, and Draco stepped forward.

"Draco Malfoy, sir. It's a pleasure to see you." He left off the _again_ and held out his hand.

"Fenton Greengrass." Mr. Greengrass nodded, thinking, as he absently shook his hand. "Malfoy, you say? Are you related to Abraxas?"

"He was my grandfather."

"Really?" The look turned shrewd as Mr. Greengrass' gaze slid to his daughter and then back to Draco. He leaned against the glass of the windowpane, and crossed one leg in front of the other, a bit of balance that defied his age and his health. "Astoria, you've brought me a Death Eater? And I didn't pick up anything for you." His lips thinned, and the shock on Astoria's face told Draco she couldn't have expected this.

Draco couldn't let Astoria defend him. "We've met before. I am a Healer. I saw you at St. Mungo's. I'm not your Healer now. I'm Astoria's friend." It seemed ridiculous to add, _and I am not a Death Eater now,_ so he waited.

"So a Death Eater sent me to a nursing home?" Mr. Greengrass sat down in his chair. His eyes were twinkling in challenge, but he saw the brow furrow, the hands clench.

Draco pulled the small desk chair over and sat. "Not a Death Eater." He uncuffed his shirtsleeve and pushed his sweater over his forearm, showing the pink scar of a tattoo. He could feel Astoria's eyes on it, and his face felt hot. "Just a Healer doing his job when you came in. And I didn't sign you in here. Are they treating you well?"

"They boil the lamb chops and the sprouts in the same cauldron, I think."

"Well, I would think anyone who has Astoria cook for him would be spoiled. I hear she makes a cracking pot de crème." Draco risked a look at Astoria, and grinned at her puzzlement.

"Ah, yes. She does at that." Fenton Greengrass leaned his head back in his chair and smiled.

"Aside from the boring food, are you treated well? I'm not your Healer, but I don't want to send anyone this way if you say it's horrible."

"It's not home."

"Suppose not."

"I have people to talk to."

"Is that good? I might think that was horrible. Depends on the person, I suppose." He grinned shyly at Astoria, and she looked back at him with an odd look.

"Curtains are better, you'll be relieved to know."

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "You do remember me a bit, don't you?"

"You aren't married." Mr, Greengrass looked reproachful.

"No." Draco marveled at how disappointing that sounded. He frowned at the floor.

"You both lied to me."

"I did. It was Christmas, and you were all upset, and it seemed better than the alternatives. I wouldn't have done it if I thought I would see you again."

"Don't lie to her, son."

Draco had a peculiar feeling come over him. He couldn't know this was a memory he'd hold close, one that would have meaning. He could very easily forget the words in a week, the entire encounter in a year or two, perhaps. But he didn't want to.

"I don't think I could lie if I wanted to, Mr. Greengrass. She's clever."

Mr, Greengrass closed his eyes. "It's her mother. Go away, Death Eater Malfoy."

"I'll be out in the hall," Draco murmured to Astoria.

"Where's my wand?" Mr. Greengrass cracked open an eye.

"Lobby, then," Draco called over his back as he waved without turning around.

Draco watched the budgies until he was bored of them, which wasn't very long at all, and then he pulled a book from the shelf and let his eyes wander over a random chapter. He stifled a chuckle, though he feared he wasn't supposed to find the help offered by the author as amusing as he did.

"Hem, hem." A girlish voice called out. Draco jolted and almost dropped the book as he scrambled to sit up.

Astoria shook with laughter. "Oh! I'm told it's spot on, but oh, it's been too long...excellent." She gasped for air, and put her hands on her knees to gulp a breath. As she did so, Draco grabbed her hand and pulled her on his lap.

"I'm learning," he held up the book and smirked as she scowled at the gormless face on the cover, "that hexes don't happen _to you,_ they happen _for you_. It's all about your spirit of gratitude."

"I'd be grateful if we didn't get kicked out of my father's nursing home. Could be awkward, even if I don't decide to bless you with a hex." Astoria muttered, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement, and Draco lifted them both to standing and waved her to lead the way.

He nodded at the elderly witch scowling at them, and Astoria led them into the late afternoon dark December. A blast of icy wind prompted her to lean into Draco, and he put his arm around her. He spent all day, it seemed, touching people, and yet, these natural comforting touches were anything but common for him; he'd gone weeks without a date, and even then, the intimacy had been perfunctory and mechanical, more lonely than solitude.

"Thank you for coming with me. I imagine that felt like your work." Astoria sighed.

Draco was too cold for many words. He bowed his head against the wind. "No. It didn't feel like that at all."

"I think I've changed my mind about the walk," Astoria gasped, as a rush of wind scooped her breath.

"Someplace else?" Draco hoped.

"Come home with me? We'll cook us dinner." Draco squeezed her hand and they ducked into a small copse behind a lonely fountain and disapparated.

Draco inhaled the warmth of her flat, which welcomed them both with the homeliness he'd felt yesterday. It was always awkward at first, going back to a woman's flat; sometimes the awkwardness was smoothed over by liquor-scented lips on his neck, but this afternoon, it was the tidy bits of housekeeping that drew all his attention—he memorized her steps, the cloaks flying to hooks, the child's pinch pot holding her keys, the placement of the kitchen towel near the chunk of soap, scented with almond.

Astoria moved behind him and kissed his neck, sliding her arms over his back. He stood very still, not quite expecting this at this moment, but then, a flash of white drew over his face.

"An apron?" He spun around quickly, and she had to hug him tightly to grab the strings behind them and cross them in front to tie. He smiled at her closeness but shook his head.

"I don't cook, Astoria. I told you I really can't."

" _Don't_ is understandable. Unnecessary, but understandable. _Can't_ is silly."

He watched Astoria flit around her small kitchen, gathering ingredients. She was in her element here, and she was quiet. He thought of his mother in her gardens, an economy of movement as she sliced a bed's outline with her wand. He remembered finding his father watching her from the window of his study, and he supposed he understood why. Astoria startled him as she spun and held up a bottle of white wine with a questioning look.

"Yes, please. Let me." This was the one household spell he had mastered with panache, and he slid a chilled glass to her in moments.

"Do you know the difference between a dice and a mince?" Astoria asked as she paused to take a sip of wine.

"I'm a Healer. I got an _O_ in Potions," Draco grinned.

"Ah, see? And you said you can't cook. Mince these. These just need to be quartered." Astoria was stacking piles of washed vegetables near a cutting board, and she handed him a knife. He checked the edge before he began slicing carrots, rocking the blade over tidy stacks. He noticed her stillness and paused, his blade still touching the board, and looked at her.

"Don't you trust me?" he chuckled.

"I'm admiring your skill. I was a bit garbage at potions theory, but I was always the one to do the cutting. I imagine you were, too."

"I partnered with Greg until he dropped it because I preferred to work alone." Draco pivoted a stack of celery and began to chop.

Astoria clicked her tongue. "That isn't very nice, Draco."

"It's exhausting enough to be good, Astoria. _Nice_ is asking quite a lot."

"You were nice to my father," she countered.

"I was trying to impress him, because I like you." Draco wiped the knife carefully on a clean tea towel and set it where he'd found it.

"Where did all this honesty come from?"

Draco put the carrot, celery, and onion in a pot Astoria held out for him. "I told him I wouldn't lie to you. You know," he started, and then took a sip of wine, "I used to get a rush from secrecy, keeping people in the dark about what I knew. Turns out honesty is far more terrifying."

"My father said you looked nervous."

"Your father was correct."

"He liked it."

"Well, that's a start."

Astoria blinked rapidly and turned her back to him, scooping a large block of butter from her icebox and dropping it into a small saucepan, while lighting fires under the vegetables and potatoes on the stove. "I don't believe in stuffing a bird, maybe with some garlic if you have it. You can do some herbs under the skin if you want, but I put onions, carrots, and fennel under the carcass, and slather it with butter, salt and pepper."

Her voice was brisk. Draco was afraid to ask why. "What are the minced veg for?"

Astoria nodded. "We'll make a sauce. Gravy. We'll have mash with it; that's what the potatoes are for. We'll turn the heat on those in a while."

Draco nodded. "Do you play chess?"

Astoria shrugged. Sure. I have a board."

Draco took a long pull of wine. She scared the hell out of him, but something had rattled her, and he didn't want to press her. Chess. A distraction. A break from whatever this was that scared them both.

The chicken cooked with Wizarding speed; Astoria showed him the spell to accelerate the process, warning him that this was a spell only to be used after the non-Magical methods were mastered.

She stood beside him while he made the mash; it turned out to be simpler than he imagined. As was talking to her, the nerves from before melted with the food and wine and shared interests—a favorite children's story, the least engaging professor.

"So Trelawney moves toward me slowly, all owly, and says I will have one son and he will be a Seer. Silly! She's telling Maisie Davis she will die before thirty, and she's got half the class convinced they have Spattergroit, gloom and doom, and then she tells me I will just reproduce." She paused to chew. "Well, I suppose it is gloomy if my child were like Saucy Sybill."

Draco felt blood rush to his ears. He forced out words and hoped they didn't sound abrupt. "She gave up the drink. Saw her at Three Broomsticks. Chatted over sodas. Brave, really. Class probably still crap, though, huh?"

"I suppose," Astoria laughed.

Draco jumped to clean up, busying himself with washing dishes as Astoria dried them and put them away. He felt a bit of a buzz from the unfamiliarity of this domestic scene; this combined with two glasses of wine made him feel like the world had slipped a bit sideways. It was all so new, and his mind was jumbled with thoughts he needed to set aside.

"Would you like a coffee?" Astoria pointed her wand at some beans in a jar and watched them spin into bits.

"Am I overstaying my welcome? Send me on my way if I am." Draco didn't add that the normal sign of a date being over was the silent hunt for his pants in the early morning.

"No. I've so much more to find out about you, and if I am honest, it's sad to see my father in care, and I wouldn't want to be alone with my thoughts."

Draco stepped toward her. "I'll do what I can to keep you from thinking," he smiled dryly, and Astoria chuckled and closed the gap between them with a kiss.

Draco found his fingers sliding into her curls, and his mind sliding into a blank bliss. She traced his lower lip with hers; he could feel her smiling, and he responded in kind. His sleeves had been rolled from the washing up, and she ran a warm thumb over his scar, the scar that was the asterisk to his life and every relationship he'd had. And here was this woman running her thumb over it. He'd had girls touch it gingerly with a perverse fascination but never like this. Her thumb was warm and firm over the scar, telling him it was part of him, but not all of him, as her hand slid up his bicep and her tongue found his.

"Couch?" he breathed.

Astoria took his hand and pulled him to her sofa in front of the fire. They forgot the coffee for the moment, and Draco studied her with his lips, finding the spot just below her ear that made her shiver. He found himself desperate to understand what was so different about her, what made him need to know everything he could know about her.

He reached the point, after he nibbled softly on her ear and she moaned, where he might have pulled off his sweater and pulled her on top of him, the point when plans are made or abandoned, and his fizzing brain popped with images of Hermione and Trelawney, one girl he had fancied, two women who had also scared him once. He kissed Astoria slowly, with all the tenderness he could convey in a kiss, and he said, huskily, "I don't want to stop. My conscience is asking for coffee. I'm trying to listen to him more lately."

Astoria cocked an eyebrow. "Your conscience wants you to stop?"

Draco immediately regretted opening his mouth to do anything but kiss her more. "I'm an idiot."

"No," Astoria smiled a smirk that shot reinforcements straight to a battle being waged in his body. "No, you are not an idiot, Draco. There's nothing simple about you. Nothing simple at all." She kissed the corner of his mouth and hopped up with a bounce to the kitchen, letting Draco sigh a painful shudder as he stared hungrily at her bum.

The intermission preceded a second act that was wholly different; Astoria continued the interview from earlier, looping back to stories from their dinner the night before, layered now with the grace affection offers. They did not touch.

Draco had never been chatty, had never needed to know, to agree with the girls he occupied his evenings with, but he found himself sharing more of himself than he had with anyone else, save his Healer, whom he didn't need to impress.

Their talk wove between the grave and the silly, the coffees long finished as they shared quiet thoughtful moments and deep, gasping laughter.

She shivered with the night air, and Draco fumbled for his wand to shut it, but she pointed to her empty owl perch, and summoned a soft blanket folded on her Hogwarts trunk.

She leaned on him and unfurled it over them, and he put his arms around her, and the talk deepened, unguarded and sprinkled with pauses. He didn't know why he didn't make his goodbyes then; he would have any other time, but tonight he was waiting for her to make any move to say she was done, and she didn't.

Draco almost repeated a whispered question until he felt a deep sigh, and realized she was asleep, her breathing deep and slow. Astoria turned in her sleep, and she rested with her head on his chest facing him.

He watched her carefully for several minutes, looking for something in her face she hadn't revealed before, but there was nothing. He gently pulled the quilt over her shoulders and shifted so his arm wouldn't go numb, and she didn't wake. Nerves thrummed in him, but fatigue was fighting them, and he buried his nose in her curls and breathed, and found himself soothed and his eyelids heavy.

He was in front of the hippogriff. It snorted and burped, and it smelled of rotting things. He was furious with it, furious that his oaf of a teacher fawned over a boy who had favor enough; Fortune herself seemed to be apologizing to a skinny, modest shrug with spectacles daily, and then a flash of grey, and the shadow and the claws.

"Ow!" He jerked his hand and felt a scrape along the back of his arm. He batted at the beast, and it made an owlish cry.

He jerked his eyes open. It was an owl. The hippogriff had vanished and a curly tangle of hair and an arm slung over his shoulder had replaced it.

"Message?" he asked. The owl hopped on the back of the sofa, a small scroll tied to her leg. Astoria was sound asleep, a wet spot on his sweater blooming near her mouth. He looked over at her owl perch and saw a barn owl sleeping; it cracked one eye and then closed it. A familiar visitor.

The owl went to peck Astoria, but Draco batted him away gently enough to keep it quiet. He released the message and whispered, "Go get a drink and scram." The owl swiveled its head in challenge, but retreated to the water dish below Greta, who kept her eyes closed.

Draco held the roll of parchment and thought. He didn't want to wake her, but if it was from St. Polycorp's, she'd be upset he hadn't.

"Hey," he whispered, hoping that would suffice. She didn't move. "Astoria," he said a little louder as he shifted his weight to support her. Her eyelids fluttered open.

"Hey," he repeated as she looked around fuzzily. He braced himself for disappointment or embarrassment, but he hadn't prepared himself for the sheepish, tousled look she gave him as her eyes adjusted to day.

"Hey." Her voice was husky with sleep, and Draco hoped desperately she wouldn't feel just then how arousing it was.

 _Hippogriffs_. _Hippogriffs and their rotten breath,_ he chanted in his head. He held up the parchment. "Owl attack. You have a message."

"Oh dear. Yes. I expect I do. Wait around, Miss Minogue, I'll get a quill." she called out, her voice clearing as she kissed Draco on the forehead and pushed off the couch, taking the tiny roll of parchment with her.

He shivered without her heat and pulled the blanket over him, sitting up to look at the unassuming owl now eating out of Greta's food dish. "Miss Minogue?"

"Ginny's owl. She likes Muggle pop music. I almost stopped talking to her after a long weekend at the Burrow. Have you ever heard Westlife? Upsetting. I think I developed a rash."

"And she's worried you didn't send her a note?" Draco was still coming to terms not only with daylight and alertness, but also with Astoria being best friends with Ginny Weasley; since Astoria had revealed this last night, he half feared what Ginny would say and half hoped she'd say it now, before he expected anything better.

"I told her I would. She's a bit fussy about me." Astoria tried to sound nonchalant, but Draco heard something behind her words that made her think there was more to it.

"Is she, uh, concerned about you going out on a date with me?" Draco asked as he picked a loose thread on the blanket.

"A bit," she offered.

"A lot?"

"Extremely."

Draco's stomach accepted the weight dropped in it. He'd have to make an extra appointment this week to work his way through this next consequence of his actions, the rage against his father that he could never quite subdue. He forced a weak smile. "You should let her know you've gotten to your wand, but the ropes have a knotting charm that is hard to undo. You forgot the severing charm, and can she remind you? Ransom is ten thousand Galleons delivered by Harry Potter dressed like Dolores Umbridge."

"That's not funny," Astoria pouted.

"I'm sorry, Astoria. She sounds like a good friend. I'll let you respond. Excuse me." He carefully pulled away from her and made for the bathroom, embarrassed and angry. Of course Astoria would have people who wouldn't like him. He had been so destroyed by the War's end that any feelings of entitlement had died with Voldemort; truly he'd been scared into gratitude that he'd escaped Azkaban. But it was hard to move on when he had to make an unfathomable space for what he'd done in school. He'd wondered sometimes if Potter felt the same way, minus the shame, of course. Ginny had lost a brother. She'd almost lost Potter. And Draco was going to lose Astoria. More penance. Draco could feel himself fighting to detach, but he didn't want to. He _liked_ her. And then there was last night—so much she'd revealed. He didn't know what to do with it all.

He knew he'd have to leave after this, and so he moved slowly, memorizing details. He washed his hands and face, breathing in the fresh towel. Her perfume was on a tray near the sink. He took note of the brand, of this and her shampoo, every last bit of her he could file away when he was alone again to twist the knife.

He carefully swept his wand over the drops of water from the sink and folded the towel to dry, erasing traces of having been there at all. He left the bathroom and expected to see a closed bedroom door or Astoria busily writing, but he heard the clatter of pans in the kitchen. He stepped in to see her humming with a vague smile as she tied her apron around her waist.

He watched her for the moment before she would notice him and send him on his way.

"Do you like eggs?" she asked.

"I-what?"

"Eggs. Do you like them? Do you know how to cook them?" She pulled out butter, cream, and a bowl of eggs from her icebox.

"Yes, I do, and I've never made them, but I...I should go."

Astoria put her hands on her hips and stared up at him. "Have to go? Want to go?"

"No..."

"I'd like you to stay." She looked at him shrewdly. "You are right, Ginny is a good friend, and I didn't mind that she checked on me. But I let her know that I plan on seeing more of you."

Draco blinked. "Oh."

Astoria pulled a face. "Oh! Unless you don't.' She gasped when she saw the wet spot on his sweater. "Did I drool on you? I did! Merlin! Ugh, didn't you notice? Let me dry it." She drew close and pulled her wand.

Draco grinned, his stomach unclenching, waves of relief surging over him. "Please don't. That was...the best way to wake up." He pulled her towards him and kissed her, feeling again that he'd somehow been gifted yet another chance he'd have to work to deserve.


End file.
